Sherlock Falls
by The Fandom Garrison
Summary: ...into darkness. 2016, and London (as well as the rest of the world) has gone to hell after the return of Jim Moriarty. In a last ditch attempt to ensure not just his but John's survival in this messed up time, Sherlock agrees to one of Mycroft's plans to remain sleeping in cryogenic holds until times are better. But when he awakes... (Follows plot of movie).
1. Part One

**Guys, I'm in trouble. I'm out of ideas. I mean, my inspirational well has run dry for my biggest stories! I need help! Tell me what you want to happen in She Who Comes Back, The Stark Twins, and The Little Guys!**

He had to keep John safe; that was all that mattered. John Watson. John Hamish Watson.

It had happened—the return of James Moriarty and a case Sherlock couldn't solve, which became a chain of decimating events that Sherlock couldn't stop. So of course, the government crumbled. And then the sanity of the industrialized world immediately followed.

There were no alternatives. No way out. No other way.

But how would he tell John his absurd, appalling last-ditch plan? He wouldn't; at least, not now. At some point, Sherlock would mention it to his best friend. But not now. And John didn't ask, too preoccupied with his best friend, his wife, and his daughter.

It was anarchy on the streets; shrill screaming, chaotic desolation, street fires—fresh out of dystopian films. Sherlock dodged a flying brick; John threw himself bodily in the torrential path of rubble before it could collide with Mary and six-month-old Charlotte. All while Sherlock tried to shepherd the small family into one of the few semi-functional cabs left in London before ducking into the drivers seat himself and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal. The wheels gave an hair-raising screech on the wrecked asphalt before rocketing down the road, which was ridden with pot-holes and debris.

But Sherlock was in a fog. He was focused solely on protecting his friend. He owed that to him. And even if he didn't owe John, he'd still—

"Sherlock!" John called over the roar of the damaged engine and the blasts of wind shooting through the broken windows, "Where the _hell_ are we going?!"

Sherlock almost didn't respond—it would have been easy to pretend that he had misheard John, or didn't hear him at all. But Sherlock took one glance in the rear view mirror at John's white face and wide eyes, at the way one arm was tightly around his wife's shoulders and the other was cradling his daughter as if someone was going to snatch them from his grasp...

"Somewhere safe," was all he could bear to say, and the utter trust on John's face when he nodded back nearly tore Sherlock's resolve in two. If John knew the full extent on the plan, he would never agree, even if Sherlock had called in favor after favor to pull this off. He wasn't even sure of Jack Sulu, the Japanese electrical engineer who's innocence of a nasty murder had been proved by Sherlock in 2008, would come through on his instrumental part of the deal.

A house burglar alarm shrieked briefly as they whizzed by; a strange pang lodged in Sherlock's chest at the thought of Lestrade, who would have caught the culprits with a flash of flair and a streak of brilliance.

But Lestrade was dead. As was Donovan. Anderson, the snarky bastard, had been crushed by a falling building. Mycroft had fled the nest at the beginning of all this, flying off to Russia, if Sherlock's inferences based on his brother's clothing were anything to go on. He had probably intended to send for Sherlock or establish a path of flight for him...but either that hadn't worked out or Mycroft was dead, too. Molly Hooper—Sherlock had seen her death certificate himself. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, was dead at the fault of a wayward looter. Even Billy Wiggins, his protege, had vanished, assumed dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Like swatted flies, suspended in the air for the tiniest moment of brilliance before plummeting down to their deaths in their infinite tininess.

John was still alive. John Watson lives.

Sherlock suddenly yanked the worn wheel sharply to the right, jettisoning a yell of shock from John and a shriek from Mary as they narrowly avoided a burning stump of something in the middle of the road. The engine groaned and sputtered, but it didn't matter—they had arrived.

"Westminster Palace?!" Roared John over the wailing of the distraught public, pulling his wife out of the cab and tugging them after Sherlock. "What, are we going to hide somewhere with the bloody _queen_?!"

Sherlock didn't answer but almost smiled at that. England hadn't had the proper reign of a queen or any royal for almost a year. Her majesty had almost certainly been carted off, though. To safety.

Leaving the _damn_ people to their own _damn_ devices...

"Sherlock!" John warned as they fearlessly approached the main gate and a man in a ragged soldiers uniform brandished a gun in their direction—

"Genghis Khan!" Sherlock snapped at the man, who instantly shrank back and allowed them entry, the gates clanging shut behind them once the party of four had hustled through.

A shot was fired and a deep voice screamed—a stranger that tried to follow them. The faint splattering noise of arterial blood spraying the flagstones. Sherlock didn't look back.

"What was that?" Mary asked tersely, surprisingly steady.

"Genghis Khan—a code word. Let them know who I am." Sherlock said absentmindedly.

"Why—"

"Not now!" He snapped at John, who just nodded once.

He led them into a side building, down a staircase, through a secret passage behind a tapestry—the point was that he'd visited the concealed laboratory so many times that he could do it blind-folded.

The familiar electric lock finally whirred shut behind them. John, his blonde hair serverely wind blown and still catching his breath, took this moment to detangle his arms from his wife and look up—

"What the hell..."

He took in the people rushing back and forth, calling for more liquid nitrogen, more oxygen, more 'insert word John wouldn't understand.' Bright solar lights glared down from the low ceilings and cast sharp, clear relief down on the stretching row of approximately seventy oblong, hollow tubes (Sherlock knew the exact number was seventy-two).

"It's a covert cryogenic lab—hardly anyone knows of it. Not even the queen knows of it," Sherlock explained, slightly out of breath. "It was actually installed in absolute secret by Prince Harry—yes, _our_ Prince Harry—a few years ago as a sort of serious joke. When the events of last year started taking place—"

"—a very wise investor saw it fit to secure spots for a select few," interrupted a dry, very familiar voice, and Sherlock spun on the spot to see two faces looking back at him.

"Mycroft, you bastard," Sherlock huffed like he was annoyed but still took his brother's proffered grip and returned the crushing pressure. "And you said I was the one with a flair for dramatics. And Molly—" he was saved from an reintroduction by Molly Hooper herself, who rushed forward in a blur of brown hair and youthful smile lines and caught him in a hug, which he also returned. "I thought you were dead, Miss Hooper," he said quietly. She pulled back with a blinding smile.

"You of all people know a death certificate doesn't necessarily require death," She chuckled.

"Yes, yes," snapped Mycroft impatiently, flapping a gloved hand. "Unfortunately, many of the people I hoped to _generously_ save were killed before today. Miss Hooper, myself, Mr. Anderson, Mr. Wiggins, and you four are all that remain of my original group."

"But," John cut in before Sherlock could even contemplate how Anderson of all people could avoid plummeting rubble the size of a helicopter, frowning, "This is great and all, really—bloody fantastic. But what's the plan? How are we going to be _saved_?" He said it in the simple, straightforward way that was all John Watson.

If only he knew the world was anything but.

Sherlock shared a sharp glance with Mycroft, who grimaced for what was coming. "My brother mentioned this was a cryogenic laboratory. Are you..." He hesitated, and raised and eyebrow at Sherlock. "Are you...familiar with the story of Walter Disney, a famed American animator?"

"What?" Spluttered John. "Yeah, but..."

His eyes widened.

"You mean you're going to—"

The blaring alarm sounded, and on cue a team of strong arms grabbed John and began to drag him over to one of the tubes, the same being done to his wife and daughter. "Mary!" John cried out as they were dragged apart. "Get off!" He snarled at the aids, thrashing wildly, but it did no good as he was wrestled into the cylinder. "Sherlock?!" John implored, still forcing his head over the rim, begging, pleading for help—

"It'll be alright, John!" Sherlock called over the noise as another scientist tugged impatiently on his arms, trying to lead him to his own pod. "It's safe, I swear! Mary and Charlotte will be together!" He felt the need to say this before he and his best friend went to sleep for an unknown multitude of years, before their time together was paused. It was just like sleep, he wanted to say. It wouldn't hurt them. They'd all be safe.

But it was time, and time was imperative. If he didn't act now, the cryonics wouldn't hold. He hear Mary's shrill protests but was forced to ignore them; he watched John's frantic brown eyes until they vanished from view and the retired war doctor was pushed all the way in and sealed inside, going limp with the gaseous anesthesia in a second.

Sherlock forced down the anxiety bubbling up in his own chest; he would be fine. Mary and Charlotte would be fine.

Sherlock shared one last nod with Mycoft, gave Molly a stiff smile—even caught Anderson's eyes a few rows down and flipped him off. Anderson cheerfully mirrored the gesture. Then, he clambered into the metal container, already misted with hoarfrost on the inside, immediately sheathed in icy air, trying to ignore how it felt like the depths of a tomb.

"Don't be worried," said a strangely accented voice, and Sherlock glanced at one of the scientists who would be remaining behind. The man towered above Sherlock's lying form, smiling kindly. His ID, pinned to his coat pocket, read Logan Chekov. "I designed these myself," he said proudly, patting the side of the cryogenic tube. "The life support is infallible. You will all be just fine."

Sherlock, naturally, could not draw comfort from the man he didn't know. But he just nodded to appease the scientist before his own pod doors began to seal shut.

Before Sherlock knew it, he was slipping out of consciousness.

He hoped John wouldn't be too mad at him for this stunt. It had to be his craziest yet...

—•—•—

_"...your name?...C'mon, son, I know you can hear me._ _What's your name?_"

A voice reached out to him, garbling throughout what sounded like miles of water above him.

"John..." Sherlock mumbled, dizzy. John knew his name...why was he being so daft?

He was vaguely aware of something on his face. A faint ribbon of pressure. Symmetrical, on either cheek. Sitting on his upper lip. In his nose.

Oxygen nibs, his brain supplied.

_Oxygen nibs. _

He wasn't in the cryogenics anymore—

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes flew open—lights, blinding, bright blue lights above him, his pupils dilating, something hard that was meant to be soft beneath him, the sharp sting of an IV in his right middle-finger vein, and that voice, that voice that wasn't John's voice—

"John?" The voice asked him, too deep and gravelly and foreign—American?— "And your last name?"

American, yes. All business. No manners. Whatsoever.

"Ho—" started Sherlock, squeezing his eyes shut again against the bright, painful light—but he quickly altered the sound, choosing to go on the safe side. If he didn't know his acquaintances, they didn't know him. "Harrison," he said quickly, his croaking voice making it easy to pull off the switch. Yes, Harrison...John's sister's name was Harry, correct?

"John Harrison—Woah!" The voice admonished as Sherlock abruptly sat up, ignoring the way the plane of existence seemed to tilt and shift. That wasn't supposed to happen, was it? "Son—" the voice said again, and Sherlock realized how much it annoyed him, "Take it easy. Apparently you've been in that cryogenic grave of yours for...well, longer than I've been alive."

That was slightly alarming, Sherlock agreed, as his eyes finally adjusted enough to comprehend the man who stood beside him. Aged in his approximate fifties, above average height, slim waist, broad shoulders, receding but solid gray hairline, a strong jaw, high cheekbones, clean shaven, creases around the mouth and on the forehead—overall, a weathered older man who was still in impressive physical condition. He was seasoned, experienced. His eyes chilled Sherlock; intense and intelligent, the color of a cold ocean. The way he held himself—tall, proud, raised chin, straight-backed like a wooden chair—spoke of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. That was always dangerous.

"Starfleet Admiral Alexander Marcus." The man said, extending his hand in an almost military fashion. Sherlock didn't take it out of habit, remaining still until the disgruntled Admiral's hand dropped back down to his side.

Sherlock glanced at his surroundings. A sort of infirmary, lit with sharp blue lights. Shining steel instruments were all around him. It was as if he was in a sort of futuristic film. It certainly looked like it.

"A team of archaeologists found you and seventy-two others concealed in the foundations of the Westminster Ruins," the Admiral said abruptly, and Sherlock's eyes snapped over to meet the other man's gray-blue ones. Had the others been awakened as well? Sherlock was alone here—were the others waiting for him? Was John? And Mary? A slight pang of something like fear twinged in Sherlock's chest at the thought of seeing John again. What if his best friend was furious with him? Really, properly furious? As if he could read Sherlock's thoughts, Admiral Marcus shook his head. "The remainder of those people are still in their compartments. You are the only one awake."

Why himself? It hit Sherlock how very, very alone he was. No John, no Molly, no...no Mycroft. What an odd feeling that was, for there to be no Mycroft.

It was alright. He was smart—smarter than this man. Everything would be fine.

"We scanned your brain while you slept," Admiral Marcus explained, and Sherlock decided to shrug off how vaguely ominous the words sounded. "And not just your activity, but everyone else's as well. But the speed at which your axons transmitted? The crystal clear pathways between the lobes of the brain? Phenomenal." Sherlock nodded, his mental faculties beginning to wriggle free of the fragmenting anesthesia and picking up speed again. Scanning one's brain was nothing uncommon. But being able to detect the rate at which his synapses fired? Impossible! He'd been asleep, he determined, at least fifty-two years. But what was that maximum?

As caught up in his own thoughts as he was, it took him a movement to comprehend the hunger in the admiral's powerful voice. The lust for opportunity, the desire for an advantage, the ache for success...

(Sherlock had to admit: in that moment, he was more than a little disappointed. After so many years, human error still remained the same—the same wants, the same shallow ambitions.)

"You know," Marcus said in that same tone, his eyes gleaming with something dangerous. Frankly, Sherlock had a sinking feeling that he did, indeed, know. "I believe there's a lot you could do to help us, son, with a mind like that."

...and there it was. Without asking, Sherlock could hear the benefits being offered: power, wealth, eventual prestige...but he didn't want any if that.

"With all due respect...Starfleet Admiral Alexander Marcus...I have to decline. My...friends and I...we will just be beginning in this new world. I would rather be with them and make my own way. Thank you," he added quickly. But every word he said was true. He managed to stop himself from saying family at that moment, but he...well, he mostly wanted to see John's face when he realized how long they'd all been asleep. Baby Charlotte was six months...and however many years old!

But something just went wrong. Sherlock could taste it in the air as something slid out of alignment. He could read it in the admiral's stiffening posture.

"You see, son," Admiral Marcus said, and Sherlock tensed, slowly sliding his numb legs off the side of the cot he lay on. It was like blood on his tongue, dense and disgusting and metallic; the feeling that the strained relationship between him and this man had just gone sour. Sherlock hadn't been supposed to refuse...he was meant to be this man's lapdog. Marcus continued, his voice harder and colder, "that's not quite how it works. You see, it took a lot of time and money to dig you and your pals—"

"Save it," Sherlock snarled, an icy fury rising in his chest. He should have known that this was too good to be true. Everything always was. "You want me to do your goddamn bidding. My motivation is, of course, the lives of my friends."

For a moment, the admiral was silent.

"Glad we understand each other, Mr. Harrison," he said finally, before walking briskly out of the room, the door automatically opening and closing with a curious sliding sound. Sherlock was left alone, staring at his white-clothed knees, and feeling like...well, like...there weren't even words, were there? For this heavy drag in his stomach, this pull on his shoulders that forced them to slump. Perhaps that closest was a sense of failure.

Sherlock didn't bother trying to escape at that moment. There would be guards. Monitors, cameras. No one would be that dull.

But perhaps...perhaps Sherlock could be that clever.

—•—•—

They'd put him in a large, luxurious room with a breathtaking view of central London—the view Sherlock had grown up gazing at, the view that had filled his vision, the view that was his home...

And he didn't recognize it.

He supposed the soaring silver spires and the gleaming skyscrapers were something to be proud of, but it wasn't London. Not to him. The beloved rusticness was totally abolished; everything was clean, clear, silver, shining, sterile. It was monochrome.

Oh, he knew the word. _BORING_.

That didn't matter, though. Only seventy-three things mattered to him.

He worked from his large room, sketching and inventing, on paper, a weapon so advanced and beyond humans now that the admiral would be appeased. Sherlock had read every manual, every textbook, that he had been allowed, and now considered himself an unofficial expert in thermonuclear physics, chemical engineering, and all things futuristic.

How useful. Mycroft would be impressed.

Mycroft was sleeping, the lazy ass.

Wasn't his fault.

But still.

He was brought three delicious meals a day by a kind looking woman named Lucia, who had a very happy marriage to a man the same age as her, three children (the youngest of which was a girl under seven months), and had a hobby of writing stories. He supposed she would tell him this if he asked, but it was obvious enough from the faint creases on the inner shoulders of her shirts (some of which she wore were actually men's shirts that fit her perfectly) where she would cradle the child and the red lines on her inner forearms where they would rest on the sharp edges of a desk when she wrote.

Anyway, he was almost certain that she was unaware of his position as a virtual captive. She seemed like one of those people (like a John Watson) who would strongly disagree to something like this. Now, if he could just...

She came with lunch on his sixth day when he took the opportunity to speak with her. In the forefront if his mind swirled everything John had ever said about talking to people: flattery and...ugh.

"Oh, _thank_ you!" He said, forcing enthusiasm when she had brought him his lunch—a warm, savory tomato-rice soup.

Lucia smiled, her warm brown eyes lighting up. "You're welcome!" She said cheerfully.

So far, so good. Sherlock was rather proud of himself.

"Can I ask you a question?" He asked, hoping his tone was 'conversational' and ignoring the redundant-ness of the query. He was already asking a question, so why—

He pushed it down.

"Sure!" Lucia chirped.

"Well, as you might be aware, Admiral Marcus found my ship afloat in deep space and rescued my crew and I. Most were gravely injured, I'm afraid." Sherlock took a deep breath, solidifying his resolve and planning ahead on the lie—but giving it a slightly throaty tone, as if he was wrestling with emotion like a hormonal teenager. "And the Admiral has so _graciously_ and _generously_ placed them into induced cryogenic comas for them to heal. But I don't know where they are, and..." Sherlock altered his voice to sound thicker and wetter, causing it to trail off as if he was on the verge of tears. He averted his gaze appropriately, as if he was ashamed of his weakness.

Lucia waiting patiently, sympathy written on her face (Kind lady, Sherlock noted, but slow on the uptake).

He raised his head again, carefully manufactured tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "If you...if you could tell me just where I could find them...just to, y'know...be with them—"

"Oh, of course, dear," she instantly started gushing with goodwill once she understood. "If they're induced cryogenic patients, they'll be in the laboratory on the twenty-third level! You'll most likely have access, weapons engineer as you are. Is there anything else I can help you with, love?"

Weapons engineer. So that's what they'd been told. Clever.

"No, no," he said, grasping her hand in an affectionate fashion. "You've done so much for me already!" He bid her good-bye with a hearty thank you and a smile so wide it made his lips hurt.

As soon as the door snapped shut on her retreating back, his smile dropped and he leaned against the door, breathing deeply.

That. Had been. Exhausting.

The things he sacrificed for John...

Well, Lucia had been...very helpful.

Anyway, he had work to do. For the first time, he pressed the button on the communicator.

"Yes?" Grunted one of Admiral Marcus's private security.

"I have the plans ready," he said into the mobile-like device. "But I'll need use of the laboratory on the twenty-third floor."

There was some mumbling. Shuffling. Pausing.

"Approved," the man grunted, and all was silent.

Sherlock couldn't help it; he punched the air with his victory.

He wondered, off-handedly, if he was going from sociopath to psychopath.

—•—•—

What if this was John? It could be John.

He asked himself that every time he slid one of the cryogenic tubes out of the slot in the wall and fitted it inside the torpedo he'd built to satisfy the admiral. He'd gotten the measurements, made the weapons to fit (he made every single torpedo by hand—a tedious, awful, dangerous process) and then secured the cryotubes into the hollow bellies of the weapons.

His work was brilliant, if he did say so himself. The torpedoes were actually functional, capable of deadly accuracy and decimating explosions. But that was only if the Admiral fired them at something. It was perfectly safe, otherwise.

The tubes were misted over with blue ice, obscuring the faces of those that lay inside. Sherlock had no way of knowing who was who. He could be putting Anderson or Mary into this torpedo. It didn't matter. He just had to get them out of here.

He didn't know what would happen next. He supposed he would teach himself how to fly a star craft.

If that didn't work, he'd be forced to flee to America.

He was usually left to his own devices down here, and he took full advantage of the fact. Seventy-three lives possibly depended on this one-man-operation remaining an absolute secret.

He loaded the last cryogenic tube into the last torpedo just in time. They were coming to tell him that it was lights-out. Sherlock's fingers flew over the dials, sealing the explosive skin of the torpedo around the precious cargo inside—just before the private security barged through the door and ushered him none to gently out of the laboratory and escorted him to his room.

It was an insane plan he was executing here.

But he was turning into a psychopath, after all.

He'd been here for eight months.

—•—•—

_Charlotte Watson—John's daughter—was named after Sherlock. _

These were the lilting thoughts that took the place of the morphine in a raging fever as he paced in his sterile room, awaiting the reaction of the admiral.

"_No, we're not naming our daughter after you," John had chuckled on that day before Sherlock left. Before Moriarty came and ruined all. _

_At least Sherlock had been allowed to come back. _

_Sherlock's mobile range on February 6, 2015—a call from John. Sherlock answered—_

_"It's a girl, Sherlock," John had said without introductions , his voice alarmingly wet and throaty, as if he was crying. Sherlock reminded himself that it ought to be happy tears. "I'm a bloody father!" _

_"That's excellent, John," Sherlock had said, and even he was surprised by the sincerity in his voice. A strange desire overtook him to go see this child that had John in a catatonic state of joy. _

_"Her name—oh, Christ—we named her Charlotte Mary Watson." _

_It took Sherlock a moment—for an instant, he'd been certain he heard John say Sherlock, not Charlotte—and it was then he understood that the Watson's first child had unspokenly been named after him, Sherlock Holmes. _

_He didn't know what to think. _

Sherlock had saved hordes of humans—Sherlock had saved entire continents from mass destruction...and February 6th, 2015, had been the greatest day of his life.

—•—•—

Sherlock was certain he should have worn holes in the lush carpet with all his pacing by now. At this very moment, his weapons were under inspection.

It had been a week since he had last seen those torpedoes, containing the beating hearts and sleeping bodies of everyone else in the world he held dear. What if he were discovered? His plan? What if—

The torpedoes, makes explosions—

_Explosions_

Like Moriarty.

Did everything come back to Moriarty?

Oh, that was a story he should have told at John's wedding.

_He couldn't breathe—or maybe it was just the scent of chlorine from the pool. Sherlock watched as Moriarty's pale lips caressed the missile plans—and then equally pallid fingers carelessly toss the instrumental flash drive away, watched it flash through the heavy air, and splash into the pool as if it were nothing. _

_"Sherlock—run!" _

_John's voice was a blast of sharp, cold air through the suffocation, his staunch arms snaking around Moriarty's neck and holding tight like a python's crushing grip. _

_"You see, Mr. Moriarty, your sniper pulls that trigger—and we both go up." John's voice held something hard and savage that Sherlock nearly didn't recognize. _

_Then the red beam was aimed between Sherlock's eyes and John let his captive go in defeat—_

But John would have died to save Sherlock.

Sherlock owed John the very same—that identical drive, that unwavering determination, that synonymous _savagery_—if he was going to save his best friend.

He was certainly a psychopath now.

—•—•—

When the guards came and kicked Sherlock in the stomach until blood bubbled up from inside and dribbled over his lips, he knew he'd been caught.

He couldn't stand—for some frustrating reason the world was tilting and shifting—so they dragged him by his upper ams, his legs trailing uselessly behind him. Next thing he knew he was being flung onto something hard—marble flooring, from the quality of the polish he could taste where his mouth scraped the ground—and heard the door bang shut behind him as the lackeys left.

His arms shaking, Sherlock gasped and managed to raise his head off the ground—only to come face to face with a pair of boots.

Whack! Red flashed across Sherlock's eyes and a paralyzing geyser of agony exploded in his face from the impact of the kick, snapping his neck upward painfully. An involuntary cry was torn from his throat and he rolled on his side, curling into a ball. Oh, _god_, that hurt. That hurt.

"Mr. Harrison," said the Admiral coldly. "I see we have a small breach in our agreement." Another kick to the back of his head and Sherlock gasped as a swarm of darkness threatened to overwhelm him. He barely fought it off, dragging himself back to consciousness. He lifted his head, choking on the blood clots in his throat, and stared up at the Admiral's icy eyes...

...and over the broad, well-muscled shoulder to a photograph on the polished desk. Depicting Admiral Marcus, but a great deal younger and cradling a bundle in his arms. Sherlock blinked the blood out of his eyes from where it was trickling from his hairline, squinting at the captured moment. Admiral Marcus was clearly a man of considerable prestige, with a large reputation to uphold. Yet the family photo was in plain sight, turned away from him as if he was showing it off. He wanted others to see it, so the child (presumably a girl from the soft pink shade of the photo's blanket) must not only be alive but in her father's good graces. If the the child had not survived to adulthood the picture would be turned inward—the father wouldn't want people prying or asking. The human mind was too sentimental and would shy away from an possibility of proverbial salt in the wound. If the child had survived but, in some way, shamed herself in her father's eyes, the photo might not have such a prominent seat on desk. Back again to the fact that the Admiral was a very businesslike man, so the baby picture on his desk was something Sherlock could use.

"Admiral..." Sherlock rasped, surprising himself with the tightness in his throat. "You m-must...understand..." He briefly squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath, pain unlike anything he had ever known shooting up his chest. That'd be broken ribs. His whole body ached, and his arms were shaking with the strain if supporting his body. "I...my friends...they are...my family." Sherlock knew what he was saying was true. "And I...did what I believed...w-would be best...f-for their s-safety." He looked Starfleet Admiral Marcus straight in the eyes. "W-would you...not do the same? For-for your family?"

For an instant, a tense silence lapsed between the two men, broken only by Sherlock's quiet pants of agony.

Suddenly, the Admiral heaved a sigh. "I suppose...yes, I believe I understand."

For the first time in months, hope swelled in Sherlock's chest, pooling around his thudding heart—

"I am a reputable man, Mr. Harrison. Not an unreasonable one. And I understand your foolishness." He said it all so calmly, yet a horrible sense of foreboding deadened the axons in Sherlock's brain. "And the weapon you have designed and constructed is unparalleled by the brightest engineer of this age. Even with the bodies inside, they are still capable of mass destruction."

"Yes," Sherlock croaked, managing to pull his knees under him. "Admiral, please—"

"Therefore," Admiral Marcus cut into Sherlock's plea as if he hadn't been talking. "I'll be lenient. You'll be given an identity in the city. You'll be allotted to live in London. A large allowance will be granted to you; do with it what you want." His tone as clipped, resigned, as if he was giving more than he believed he should.

But Sherlock—he wasn't even listening. He couldn't care less about what he was receiving.

"Admiral," he said again. "My friends—"

But the Admiral interrupted coldly. "Will remain where they are."

_No_. Sherlock didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he was being hauled to his feet by private security. "No!" He didn't care that he was groveling, begging. He didn't care about upper hands, or clever plays—the image of sleeping John being fired at the enemy, being killed—John would be killed—"No, please, sir! _Please_!" He cried, but Marcus just shook his head, a tall, impassable pillar of stone with cold, unfeeling blue eyes.

"This is what happens when you try to double cross me, Harrison. Now go. You may be called on in the future."

The doors slammed shut, but Sherlock didn't cease his begging.

"Please!" He implored of the stony faces of the hired security that were dragging him away. "Please, listen! I will give you all the money I am able, just—" but it was like talking to a brick wall. He was thrown back into his room with a small suitcase that contained three sets of clothes and his first paycheck of 3 million.

Sherlock didn't want it.

He didn't know how long he remained pressed against the door, his fist hammering weakly against the solid wood until his knuckles and hands were stained with bruises.

So they were sending him out into monochrome London. Sherlock bet all that three million that people here were just as stupid as they were when he had been living in his proper time. Slow, dumb, complacent cows. It wouldn't be hard to extract from them what he needed.

He'd also bet that the Admiral wouldn't hesitate to immediately fire Sherlock's weapons on this century's foulest enemies. And immediately didn't give anyone any time.

If there was no saving John Watson, then John Watson must be avenged.

**Yay. This is part one! Review! Suggestions! Comments! Review! Part two will include scenes from the movie. Review! ****Tell me what you want to happen in She Who Comes Back, The Stark Twins, and The Little Guys! Review!**


	2. Part Two

_Three Months Later_

"I can save her."

It was windy. And chilly. Some things about London never changed.

The haggard man slowly turned to face him, agony etched in every premature line of his features. "What did you say?

"Your daughter. I can save her." Sherlock kept his face impassive. Not a hard thing to do these days.

"Who..." The man (his name is Frederick Harewood, father of Lucille Harewood, husband of Symantha Jones Harewood. Sherlock remembers from his research) blinked at him once, twice. "Who are you?"

_A victim_, Sherlock wanted to say. _A slighted, innocent man who just wants his family back. Not John Harrison. I am not John Harrison._

But it was like he told John, eons ago: human error.

—•—•—

The cure was a simple solution of Sherlock's own making. His blood was the main ingredient. Sherlock wasn't exactly certain why, but somehow after years of pouring morphine and cocaine and other drugs into his blood, and then after decades of that same blood circulating around and around in his cardiovascular system, permeating other cells and mutating to survive, something on the base level had changed. The chemical/protein composition could do extraordinary things as proved by his tests.

He had been watching this broken family for a while now. His blood would definitely save that little girl's life. He tried to ignore how willingly the man complied.

He tried to ignore how much the man's morals and loyalty reminded him of John Watson.

He tried to ignore the strength of the mother, so much like Mary.

An innocent little girl, just like Charlotte.

No. By now, Sherlock was above grief.

—•—•—

Frederick Harewood met his eyes before he entered the building. Six minutes and twenty-three seconds later, the homeopathic bomb detonated. By that time, Sherlock was far away. Even so, he felt the vibrations, the tremors, even the screams—resonating deep in his heart. He was no stranger to explosives, either—but this. Something about this felt new.

He relished it.

—•—•—

In three months, Sherlock had done his reading. Never practice, because he was watched sporadically by Marcus' people. They would have already known it was him who directed the decimation of the archives. So they'd do what frightened normal people would do: lump their elected leaders together like terrified sheep.

Perfect.

Sherlock swung carefully into the jet craft. It was dark; the captains and their first officers—and Marcus—would be gathered at Starfleet Headquarters. Pulling up the blueprints for a standard police squadron jet in his mind's eye, he wrapped his hand around what would most logically be the thruster. He pressed the button, felt the smooth ignition of the clean engine (at least they'd figured out how to run vehicles without petrol) and methodically leaned forward. The intelligent sensors picked up his every movement, and then he was gliding towards Starfleet HQ like he'd been born flying.

There.

Sherlock's hands tightened around the gunners. The display screen to his left instantly highlighted architectural chinks in the armor of the Head Quarters, but Sherlock ignored it. He was aiming for pulses, not pillars.

Sherlock halted mere meters from the windows and opened fire.

It was almost beautiful in the way that the glass shattered like fragments of blazing fire, the multi-colored hard-light precision lasers burning the lives out of bodies as if snuffing out candles. Absolute calm washed over Sherlock's mind as he swept the craft in a controlled arc with eyes for Marcus, only Marcus, aiming for what could be Marcus. He spotted a masculine figure, rising above the hunched forms of the others and sprinting across the hall and Sherlock aimed for it, only just missing as the figure dove into an adjacent corridor.

A panel on the left side of the cockpit flashed purple and emitted several high-pitched beeps; Sherlock felt the minuscule jolts in the aircraft as return fire from Starfleet defense guards hammered the outer shell. However, the firearms were standard-issue stun-pulse moderate-shock weapons, meant for incapacitating assailants or human hostiles rather than Starfleet's own heavy artillery. Using those against him was like pelting a riled bear with pebbles—hardly a defense and more of an irritant. Sherlock still swerved lithely out of the path of harm on the off chance a pulsar hit an engine or vital, hard-to-reach component. His own fire hit home after perfect home, and Sherlock's very blood boiled with the energy, the power, the _justice_—

Sherlock saw it right before it hit. A standard Starfleet defense firearm with an emergency fire hose tied around it, jettisoned from one of the broken windows and sucked into the right engine with a sickening lurch. The fire of rage inside of Sherlock flared as he abruptly wrestled for control of the tilting aircraft, the spinning turbine reeling in the hose like fishing line—_crash_! The very panel was ripped from the wall and yanked directly into the engine, sending the jet spiraling into a wild tail spin. The wind and blaring alarms roared in Sherlock's ears with deafening decibel as he was jerked painfully against the harness, fumbling with the portable trans-warp beaming device, dialing in the coordinates while the whole world flipped to the side and spun like a top—

As he slammed the final button, tendrils of light starting to whirl around him, his eyes caught those of a man in the building. Yes, he had been the one who'd thrown the gun—the young man with the blue eyes and chestnut hair and the look of a man who'd seem far more than anyone his age should—

In a blast of light, Sherlock Holmes vanished.

—•—•—

He was deposited at the mouth of a cave on the planet of Earth's most vitriolic enemies; a planet named Kronos. The god of time. The race here, Sherlock had read, was volatile, corrupt, and ruthless. A perfect, near-identical match of the human race. The only difference between them and the humans was the emphasis on public sanitation.

There was no way to know if Sherlock's plan had been a success. All he could know was that he needed to stay here long enough to be presumed unreachable. Then. Then, he would return and see if his attempt had worked.

If not...perhaps next time, he would shoot Marcus on sight.

—•—•—

For three months, Sherlock had, for lack of a better word, _fantasized_ about ways of killing the murderer of all he held most dear. Slipping a silent poison into the coffee he consumed every morning before work and looking down at the admiral while spittle foamed on his lips and his terrified eyes glazed slowly over. Hiring someone he knew to shoot him through the heart, and watch deadened betrayal replace the cold light in his eyes. Or more recently: targeting the daughter of the admiral that was somewhere out in the world and ending her life and giving the admiral oh-so-clear perspective on what it felt like to have you heart pulled out of you chest and carried in your hands.

Unfortunately, life (particularly Sherlock's) was very fickle about being as poetic as he would have liked. Vigilant security and advanced alarm systems alone prevented unwarranted entry to an almost unnecessary degree. He was forced to settle on attacking Marcus where he worked, degrading and defiling the safety and value of everything he worked for before snuffing his life out.

It wasn't much. But vengeance was all-consuming, and needed to be fed. Sherlock had no qualms about complying.

—•—•—

"Attention, John Harrison. This is captain Hikaru Sulu of the _U.S.S. Enterprise._ A shuttle of highly trained officers is on its way to your location."

This had not been predicted.

Sherlock immediately turned his eyes towards the muggy grey sky. There was no odd noise, no sign that any shuttle was coming at all.

A bluff? A farce?

"If you do not surrender to them immediately, I will unleash the _entire_ payload of long-range, highly advanced torpedoes that are currently locked on to your location. You have two minutes to confirm your compliance. Refusal to do so will result in your complete obliteration." There was a pause. "If you test me...you will fail."

Sherlock hardly heard more than half the transmission. His brain, usually such a smooth, well-oiled engine, had jammed and locked onto a single word: torpedo.

—•—•—

The pulsar-gun, rigged by Sherlock to produce blasts of macro-spectrum power so charged that a direct hit could stop an average-sized heart, was more than enough to impede Klingons.

The first shot from the apex of the ridge hammered home into the leader's heart and the second sent one warship spiraling to the ground in a burst of red and black fire. Then, Sherlock's instincts overtook him. The towering black bodies of the Klingons became the bullseye of the target. Sound receded, and there was just calm, the calm that only killing could bring Sherlock's mind.

Shot to the heart, shot to the lung, both Klingons went tumbling down. One charged, but Sherlock's gun swept it's feet out from under it. _Flash flash, flash, flash_, and enemy seemed to dissolve underneath his force. His enhanced muscles and blood roared in his ears as he leapt down from the ridge with the agility of one who could fly, landing light and throwing his knives into the brains of the bodies that rushed him. A dark clot of them approached; Sherlock kicked, slashed, punched, blasted—

Then he scooped the gun back up in one fluid motion and nearly stumbled over to the Starfleet officers that were crouched upon the foul gray silt of Kronos, panting and coughing. As he approched, one of them—a male, and part Vulcan, some part of Sherlock's brain noted—straightened, firearm held in position.

"Stand down!" He called.

Sherlock ignored him. "How many torpedoes?" He croaked, voice hoarse from disuse.

"Stand down!" The Vulcan called more forcefully, and Sherlock lost control and pulled the trigger on his gun, the brilliant pulsar blast knocking the Vulcan's weapon to the ground in a shower of red-gold sparks.

"The torpedoes!" Sherlock bellowed, a distantly familiar sort of desperation clinging to his insides. "The weapons you threatened me with in your message, how many are there?!"

The Vulcan regarded him for a moment, glancing at the two humans on the ground before answering: "seventy-two."

_Seventy-two._

_A trick. A trap._

_Marcus? Working for Marcus?_

Statistical probability that those were the very torpedoes Sherlock had designed: 42%.

Those were the best odds Sherlock had in three months.

He threw his gun to the ground with the abandon of a high-functioning sociopath. "I surrender."

**Hey guys! Summer is here! Okay so this will be more than a two-parter! Three, maybe four! I hope you guys enjoyed this, next one will come. It's kinda hard to write because I have to watch the movie while I write. Pretty strange, huh? Review! Review! **


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